I really don’t know what to say about this.
Well, other than “Move over for your replacement, Poorla.”
an irresistibly bad idea
So.
Starting next week, I will be teaching a 12-week drama workshop at a private hoity-toity Jewish prep school here in town.
Yep. I mean, seems logical. The perfect fit for my evangelical shiksa self, don’t you think?
Oh, yes.
Bottom line: It was just too flat-out ridiculous to pass up.
Last week, I drove up to their school and had what turned out to be a TWO-HOUR interview where I met four different men. The first one was short, looked like Billy Bush, was not Jewish, and apart from acting nervous and tongue-tied, seemed utterly generic. He gave me a tour of their school but didn’t seem to know what to say about it. I had to keep asking questions to get him to say anything at all, like some horrible blind date. But without benefit of alcohol.
The next feller was the high shool principal of the hoity-toity Jewish school. He was also short, wore a yarmulke, stared lasers at my boobs, and isn’t that nice, baruch atah adonai. The entire time he cross-examined me, he played absently with the small green clock on his desk, spinning it round and round. I could tell he thought very highly of me as a person.
The next gentleman was the grade school principal. He was not short. He handed me his card, said, “Call me” and walked away. That was all. “Call you” for what, Peaches??
The last man was The Head of The Arts “Collective” they are starting at the school. The “main guy” I needed to talk to in order to get my shiksa self into The Fyvush Finkle Arts Collective. (Not the real name. I’m not making fun here; there is a famous Jewish name in there, just not that one.) He was the art teacher and sported a grey turtleneck, khaki vest, and matching khaki pants. He, too, was short. Also balding, with little round glasses and tiny brown eyes. All that was missing to complete the cliche was the beret. I swear, if he’d been an actor playing an art teacher in a movie and had come out of wardrobe in that, the director would have said, “Please find something else; no one really dresses that way.” He was like a living cartoon and I struggled to look him in the eye. Allegedly, his class was in session, it was the first day of school, but he took me to the back of the class and talked to me for AN HOUR while his kids did Yahweh knows what. They were not creating art, I know that, but they did spend a very long time with their heads bowed over a single piece of paper. Vest Boy, meanwhile, asked me questions and answered them himself, so of course, I found out later he was very impressed with me.
When class was nearly over, he excused himself to go set the captives free. I watched the tight smiles and furrowed brows flicker across the kids’ faces as Vest Boy droned on and on, past the class bell, past all reason, past the end of time. Once the kids bolted from the room, he came back to me and said, “You know, some of these kids have me for several years in row. Sometimes, after a while, they actually think I’m boring.” Said without the slightest sliver of irony. I smiled a tight smile, as I remember. After another monologue where he blabbed about his “partner” Rachel, about “filling the artistic well,” about the personal lives of his students (ahem) and after I purposely, blatantly took my cell phone out of my purse to look at the time, he finally said: “Well, the job is yours if you want it.”
Oh, boy!
Want it?
Want it??
For reals?
Wow!
It’s just like Christmas!
Or I mean Chanukkah!
After all, the four of you have kept me here for TWO AGONIZINGLY MONOTONOUS HOURS. I don’t like any of you. I don’t like that you’re a private Jewish school and it doesn’t matter to you that I’m not Jewish. I don’t like that this is a private school without a dress code. I don’t like your outfit. I don’t like your beady eyes. I don’t like the word “collective.” I don’t like that you have a “partner” and that you talk seriously about “filling the welllll.” I don’t like that I had an instant violent dislike of Principal Laser Eyes even before he proved himself to be Principal Laser Eyes. I don’t like that you’re all making me promises of “bigger and better things to come,” dangling your artsy little carrots.
After a steady five-year diet of major disappointments and broken promises, I don’t believe any of you for one teeny-tiny split second.
I mean, what’s more like Christmas and/or Chanukkah than that?
So, of course, I emailed Vest Boy two days later and said yes. Five seconds before I wrote that email, I was sure I was going to say no. Violently and unequivocally.
But … quite honestly …. and I am so very lame as we all know …. I thought it might make for some good blogging.
Seriously.
An irresistibly bad idea is irresistible for a reason, you know.
So instead, I compromised. They wanted an entire year commitment to this “after school collective,” but the job is too far away and far too part time right now, so I committed to the first session only and told them I would need more for it to work for me long-term. The conceptual arsty carrots being dangled would need to become actual artsy carrots. (And somehow you would all have to become tolerable and non-pervy and taller if you could manage that, mkay?)
Basically, I said yes with room for no later on.
Vest Boy emailed back almost immediately, so excited.
Oh, I too, Vest Boy, am positively brimming over.
You have no idea.
Local shiksa teaches drama to a bunch of rich Jewish girls and boys.
Nothing more irresistibly bad than that.
what???
don’t get sick in san diego
Three local hospitals have been leveled huge fines lately. What for, you ask?
~ One hospital allowed a couple of patients to regain consciousness during surgery. (Egad. One of my biggest fears.)
~ One allowed a patient to fall off the operating table during surgery. (Just how does that even happen??)
~ And … the other forgot to put a patient on a ventilator. The patient died.
Well.
Thank God Tijuana is so close.
you might be surprised to hear …
That I really only have this to say about last night’s gymnastics competition:
Russian gymnast Anna Pavlova performs her floor exercise to a disco version of the theme from Exodus, that most syncopated of all movies.
Carry on.
what I saw when I (finally) turned the channel
Whenever NBC gives airtime to the loathsome synchronized diving, I am forced to click the channel away. Like last night. I clicked away randomly and stumbled upon the reality show that is basically American Idol for hoors: The Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious. The show works like this: A bevy of scholarly, articulate young ladies compete for spots in a hawt new girrl group — descendant of The Pussycat Dolls — called Girlicious. They sing and dance and get checked for STDs. From what I could gather, it’s a very grueling competition, chipping away at their common sense, testing their trampy mettle and whatnot. When they’re not rehearsing or competing, naturally, our girls are behind the scenes either reading The Federalist Papers, debating alternative fuel sources, or bitching about one of their fellow slatterns: “I cannot (beeping) stand Tiffani”; “Natasha is so (beeping) fat’; “Carlie’s singing is (beep),” and other such astute observations. I really hate that kind of pompous windbaggery in TV programming. It all goes over my head and makes me feel bad about myself.
At one point, the camera finds two of the young ladies alone in a bedroom. They’re sitting on the bed, whispering. Oh. I see. They’re praying. You think the Olympics are inspirational? I’m telling you, they ain’t jack compared to the heartwarming sight of two would-be strumpets calling on the Lord Jesus to bless their dubious endeavors. So uplifted was I that I immediately got out my checkbook and wrote a big fat tithe to the ongoing spiritual work of The Chicken Ranch in Nevada.
Moving. Touching. I think I may very well be changed in some fundamental way.
“Dear Jesus, please help us kick ass in this competition that angers you so. Amen.”
snippet
On the phone with MB this morning, who is up in the deep dark middle of nowhere and kind of out of the loop:
ME: So, did you see it??
HE: What?
ME: The men’s 4×100 freestyle relay!
HE: Running?
(a pause)
ME: Yes, honey. The freestyle running relay.
HE: Well …. maybe they wave their arms.
I can’t help it. I do love him.
apropos of nothing
Except that I love the Olympics which start tonight and this water polo team picture has someone I love in it and it’s basically cracking me up and water polo is an Olympic sport so it all fits together in the bouillabaisse that is my brain.
My brother is a kick-ass water polo player and coach. He is also The Banshee’s (and Banshee Jr.’s) dad. This is his men’s water polo team — only in existence for a few years, but in the championship last year. He also coaches ladies’ water polo and men’s and ladies’ swim. That’s Thee Studlye One himself — on the far right, top row. With his hair all slicked back so that it looks kinda alien to me, but still, he is quite the hunkorama. (He does not normally have Mitt Romney hair, I swear.) Also, towel dudes, he may be over twice your age, but he can whoop your asses in that pool. Beware! Be scared! Like me!
Also, uhm, yo water polo dudes. It’s picture day, so be sure to be soaking wet, ‘kay? If we’re dry, we look like wusses. We must menace with our spiky hair and smooth chests and brightly colored towels! Grrrrr!
This just cracks me up — the practice of men’s swim and water polo teams always posing for their pictures soaking wet, as if they just practiced or played a game. High school football players don’t pose for team photos all bruised and dirty and grass-stained, do they? Baseball teams don’t do that, right? So why water polo and swim? Is it because being wet gives them an excuse to wear towels which cover up the skimpy Speedos which make everyone uncomfortable? Something to ask Le Brother. Er, somehow. How would one phrase that, I wonder??
A final “also”: Top row, first and seventh kids from the left. Identical twin brothers. Former drama students of mine — uhm, at the same time. Still don’t know which one is which. Not sure if my brother does either.
Oh, wait. Another “also”: Bottom row, the stick-figure kid with the giant mop of hair and the Pearl drops smile (second from left) is killing me. Big time.
i dreamed a dream …
…. where I watched these freaky bodybuilding people line their baby’s onesies and dresses with weights so she’d be more a more ripped, less chubby baby.
I woke up utterly disturbed. What is wrong with me? What does this mean?
Please feel free to share your disturbing dreams so I can feel slightly less nutso.
everyone in the world has seen this, but …
… in case you haven’t …. you need to see the video of Christian the Lion, just so you’re not behind the curve. I’ve seen this now in a couple of different venues and I find the music choices of each one really distracting and annoying. The first time I saw it, it played to the sentimental strains of “And I EEE AYYYYYYE EEE AYYYYYYYE WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOOOOOUUUU, etc.” So in the spirit of full disclosure, I feel I must tell you up front that the musical accompaniment to this short video is “Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith, which, uhm, considering the subject matter, seems really inapt. But maybe that’s just me. The video has the same impact if you watch with the sound off.
Also, don’t let it bother you that one of the dudes in the clip has a way bigger mane than Christian the Lion. I mean, that shouldn’t distract you at all. Don’t even think about or anything. Not even once, okay?